Chapter Text
He wonders, as he walks down the street, if other people can see it. If they can sense it; the utter rot and turmoil of his soul. He wonders if it looks as heavy as it feels—blanketing him like a dark storm cloud. Some days feel lighter than others, and sometimes he can even trick himself into thinking he's a good person. Most days though, he just feels rotten, dirty. It eats at him, like tiny termites crawling all over his body, ingesting and getting rid of any positive thoughts—leaving him an aching, hollow husk of a man.
He can't remember the last time it was this bad. He remembers brief periods of depression when Miles disappeared, when the truth about Dahlia came to light, when Mia died and when Miles "died". But it was never as bad as now—back then, he still had something to cling to. Someone to help him. Larry, Mia, Maya, Pearl. They had all been there to support him, and he had had other things to focus on.
Now he has nothing.
Except Trucy.
Trucy, with her bright smile, magic and light, chipper voice that calls out for him in that soft, lilting tone. "Daddy!"
He wishes it was enough. Enough for him to get up in the morning, enough for him to keep it together. To keep going.
Lately the only comfort he can seem to get is found at the bottom of a bottle or a can.
He knows he shouldn't turn to alcohol, especially since he now has a child to look after. But as more and more days pass by after his disbarment his anxieties just keep growing. Every day is a struggle, and all he wants to do is sleep, because being awake is too hard. Every waking moment is spent worrying and agonizing over things that had been and things that would be.
It started off light. A can of beer when he got home from work, just a little treat. With time one can turned to five, and soon becoming drunk was the goal, not the unintended result—because if he was drunk, his thoughts wouldn't keep him up at night. The alcohol numbed him, turned the voices in his head a little softer. He started waking up hungover, which made the days even worse. So he started slipping some whiskey into his coffee—not much, just enough to feel slightly, pleasantly buzzed. But a slight buzz at the beginning of the morning was never enough to keep him going for a whole day, and soon he's sneaking sips throughout the day when he thinks no one is looking.
It helps. It makes him feel awful—but by god does it help. It turns the world a little brighter, a little quieter and it makes things easier.
No one notices, at least he doesn't think so. He keeps himself sharp enough to do his job, sharp enough to take care of Trucy, sharp enough to hold a conversation with Kristoph. The edges of his suffering have been dulled, and he finally doesn't find the world so unbearable. He moves through it differently, like looking at everything through a filter. Half the time nothing feels real. And when things start to feel too real, he just takes another sip.
Being around Trucy makes him feel worse. He can see, feel, sense the way he's failing her. It presses all the buttons inside him that urges him to drink more, to forget, to stop feeling. But he keeps it together. For her.
Kristoph is easier to be around. He's seen the rot inside Phoenix, comments on it occasionally. But he never tries to fix him. Never offers his help or his concern. It's a relief. With Kristoph, Phoenix can be as dirty and rotten as he likes, and Kristoph won't bat an eye.
When things turn physical Phoenix doesn't know what to think. He can barely remember their first kiss or their first time—he was so out of it. He doesn't hate it. It's—bearable. But mostly he lies back, stares up at the ceiling and completely loses himself to his own thoughts—until his body isn't something he inhabits, but merely observes from outside.
Keeping up the physical stuff means keeping Kristoph happy, and keeping Kristoph happy means keeping him off Phoenix's back. So Phoenix continues. On those days, he drinks a little extra. Until Kristoph's touch doesn't make his skin crawl, and his kisses doesn't make him want to bathe himself in acid.
It's just sex, Phoenix thinks. They never talk about it, establish boundaries or put a label on things. Kristoph thinks they're having fun. Mostly, Phoenix is just trying to punish himself. Sometimes—when Kristoph yanks his hair a little too roughly, or bites his shoulder a little too hard, or scratches his back a little too deep—he thinks he's trying to punish him too. For being a failure, a disgrace. For having fallen so far.
Phoenix doesn't know who he is unless he's helping someone. He knows he should be directing all that energy, all that need onto Trucy. She—more than anyone—needs it. It's not like he doesn't try. But at the end of the day, Trucy is surprisingly self-sufficient and doesn't need much of Phoenix's help. At the end of the day, it's he who needs her.
On his better days he tells himself that it's all temporary—he can stop whenever he wants. This isn't a problem. He deludes himself that he is in control, and somewhere—in the back of his mind—he knows it's a delusion. But he clings to it, utterly hopeless and desperate to remain some semblance of control. The problem doesn't lie with the drinking, the problem lies with the fact that he doesn't want to stop. He's self-destructing and he doesn't care, because as long as he's self-destructing, at least he's doing something.
Drinking becomes the only thing he looks forward to. Every morning he wakes up with the taste of stale, bitter regret at the back of his tongue. He stews in his own self-hatred until he chokes on it, and the only escape he has is to drink again. Until the anxiety disappears and the self-hatred transforms. It becomes a cruel circle he can't escape—where drinking makes him feel like shit and the only way to escape it is to drink more.
He's stuck in a downward spiral and he doesn't know how to stop it.
It's not like he doesn't have moments of clarity—brief and fleeting times where his brain screams at him that this isn't sustainable. He tries a few times to stop. Skips putting whiskey in his coffee and leaves the flask at home. But as the day drags on his hands begin to tremble, his stomach starts to cramp and his head starts to pound. The anxiety sets in and his mood plummets. Those times he ends up getting a beer—or two, or three—from the restaurant. He drinks until his nerves settle and his anxiety dissipates.
On those days, when Phoenix comes home smelling like a brewery, Trucy still says nothing. She helps him undress—pulling his shoes off his feet and hanging up his jacket—before Phoenix stumbles into the shower or bed, only to repeat this the next day. And the day after that. Until he realizes that fighting is futile and he brings the flask again—starting over at square one.
He doesn't know when the shaking starts becoming part of his mornings—like brushing his teeth or buttoning his pants. It's simply there now, like a parasitic rhythm stitched into his bones. Some mornings he wakes to find his hands trembling so bad he can't even hold his coffee without spilling. He's often left staring at the mess on the table, before robotically cleaning it up—movements stiff, like a man doing a parody of a morning routine rather than living his life. It isn't until he adds the whiskey behind Trucy's back the shakes disappear, and he can function like a normal human being.
If you were to ask the Phoenix he was before he started drinking regularly, if he suffered from anxiety, the answer would've been no. Not to a degree that it mattered at least. Now though, anxiety is an all-consuming beast constantly threatening to swallow him whole. He starts analyzing and agonizing over every single interaction. Did they notice? Do they know? Did they see me sneak a drink? Can they smell it on me? It becomes unbearable, to the point where the only thing he can do to soothe his anxieties is to drink more; until he's carefree and unbothered of other people's opinion of him.
Alcohol becomes everything. The socializer, the soother, the sleep aide.
Soon he doesn't know how to function without it. And faster than he can blink, he has become completely dependent on it—both mentally and physically.
And no one even realizes.
The message comes in at two in the morning. Phoenix is slowly sobering up at this point—sipping some red to stop the alcohol from completely leaving his system.
Miles: Are you up?
Phoenix squints at the screen, the letters doing a dance in the little text bubble. He reads the sentence three or four times before settling his thumbs over the keyboard.
Phoenix: yed
Phoenix: yef
Phoenix: yes
He takes another sip as he watches the bubbles indicating Miles is typing appear. Soon another message is sent.
Miles: Can I call you?
Phoenix doesn't really feel like talking. He doesn't know if he can make himself sound coherent at the moment, but sends a thumbs up nonetheless. Soon after, his phone rings. He picks it up.
"Edgeworth," he greets, keeping the slurring to a minimal.
"Is this a bad time?" Miles asks. Phoenix shakes his head before remembering he's on the phone.
"Not at all," he says, exaggeratingly punctuating each word.
"O-okay," Phoenix can practically hear Miles' eyebrow raise in that one word. "How would you feel about coming to see me?"
Phoenix blinks. "What?"
"I'd pay," Miles hurriedly assures him. "I have this case—I could use your help."
Something cold and sharp settles in his chest at those words.
"I'm not a lawyer anymore," he reminds Miles, mind suddenly sharp—like all the alcohol in his system has evaporated.
Miles doesn't miss a beat. "Don't be an idiot. Of course you are. You might have lost your badge, but being a lawyer—it's a part of who you are."
Phoenix doesn't know how to respond to that.
He swallows, mouth uncomfortably dry at this point. He takes another sip of his wine.
"You think it's that simple?" He swirls the wine in his glass, staring at the red liquid as it lapses at the rim.
"I do, because it is. You haven't lost your ability. You haven't lost your mind, or your stubborn sense of justice. At the end of the day you're still you."
Phoenix wets his lips. "Careful, Edgeworth. That sounds dangerously close to flattery."
"It's not flattery," Miles states flatly. "It's the truth."
Phoenix blows some air through his nose in an exasperated mimic of a dramatic sigh. He drags a hand over his face, his fingers smelling faintly of red wine.
"Why me? You can't be that desperate. You have an office of prosecuters that could help you. Why turn to the disgraced, disbarred defense attorney?"
"Because I trust you."
It sounds so simple, coming from Miles' lips, and Phoenix can feel his heart give a painful squeeze in his chest.
"I'm not the same as I was," he whispers into his phone, grip on the wine glass tightening. "I—I've changed."
Miles' voice is soft when he speaks. "Of course you have. We all have. That doesn't make you less reliable."
Phoenix glances at the half-empty wine bottle.
"I don't know about that."
"Wright, listen to me, because I will only say this once. You are a great attorney. Probably the greatest I've ever witnessed in my entire career. You were born to do this, that doesn't go away just because you don't have a badge anymore. I trust your judgement, to an almost detrimental degree. I couldn't—wouldn't trust anyone else to help me. It has to be you, Wright. Only you."
Phoenix swallows around the lump in his throat.
"You're not just saying that because you feel sorry for me? You aren't doing this out of pity?"
"I have a lot of feelings around you, Wright. Pity is hardly one of them."
That pulls a smile out of Phoenix. "A lot of feelings?" He repeates. "Such as—unease and uncertainty?"
Miles huffs and Phoenix swears he can hear him smiling.
"I'll book a plane and send you the details. I'll see you soon, Wright."
Phoenix wets his lips. "See you soon. Edgeworth."
They hang up. Phoenix stares at his phone for a long time, heart thundering in his chest. He replays the conversation in his mind over and over again.
Miles trusts him. Miles believes in him. The man with all the resources at his fingertips wanted him—the washed-up, good for nothing, former defense attorney.
Phoenix sets the phone on the small table, along with his wine glass. He drags his hands over his face and takes a deep breath—holding the air in his lungs for a few seconds before blowing it out through his nose.
He goes to stand, wobbling a bit as he gets to his feet. He takes his glass and pads over to the kitchen sink, pouring the remainder of the wine out. He fills the glass with water and starts chugging it. He knows nothing will stop the hangover that's waiting for him tomorrow, but he can at least try to make it bearable.
The pitter-patter of small feet against the wooden floor catches his attention. He turns around and sees Trucy, dressed in her night gown and clutching a teddy tightly to her chest.
"Daddy?" She says around a yawn, hand coming up to rub at her tired eyes. Her hair is a mess, small wisps forming a halo around her head.
Phoenix manages a wobbly smile and on shaky feet he makes it over to her. He takes her into her arms and lifts her off the floor. Her arms come up to wrap around his neck, teddy dangling over his shoulder.
"What are you doing up, Truce?" He whispers, carrying her back to her bedroom. Trucy wrinkles her nose.
"Daddy smells funny again," she whispers back, pinching her nose. Phoenix presses his lips together, a wave of shame washing over him.
"Sorry, sweetheart. I'll brush my teeth."
Trucy nods curtly. "I woke up because you were talking," she tells him then.
Phoenix nudges the bedroom door open with his foot and makes it inside. The lamp on the bedside table is on, bathing the room in a warm, rustic light.
"I had a little talk with Uncle Miles."
Trucy lights up at that. "Will I finally get to meet him?" She asks. Phoenix lowers her down onto the bed and tucks her in.
"Sorry, sweets. I think this is a journey I have to make on my own. But I'll ask Maya or Ema to look after you. That could be fun too, right?"
Trucy pouts. "You talk so much about Uncle Miles. It's weird that I haven't met him yet."
Phoenix chuckles and runs a hand over her head.
"Soon, love. I'm sure he's busy with work. He'll stop by when he has time."
He smooths the blanket out over her tiny frame—fingers trembling ever so slightly. Maybe from nerves, anticipation. From finally having something in his life to look forward to.
"You'll come back, right?"
He presses a chaste kiss to her forehead.
"Always," he whispers against the skin. Trucy yawns one more time before snuggling down, clutching the teddy close to her.
"Brush your teeth," she reminds him sleepily, then drifts off to slumberland. Phoenix stays by her side for a few more minutes, combing his fingers through her hair.
As he watches her sleeping form he wishes. He wishes he was better, he wishes he was stronger, he wishes he was wiser. He wishes his love for her alone was enough to set him on the right path. Trucy is so good and deserves the world. Phoenix can't give her that.
He breathes carefully as he sits near her—afraid if he breathes any louder the knot in his throat will come undone. He feels so small and insignificant next to her bright light. A shadow that will dissappear in her presence, utterly consumed. He does not know how to exist next to her, not without disintegrating.
He wonders, not for the first time, if she would've been better off without him. His eyes sting at the thought, and his hand still by her temple.
Maybe the answer is yes, and he was just selfish. Broken as he is, he needs Trucy's light—like a starving man needs food. He lives off of it, because without it, he would be lost in the dark. A moth aimlessly looking for a flame.
He leans down and presses a kiss to her hair.
"Night," he whispers. "Truce."
-
Miles Edgeworth pays for Phoenix to fly first-class, because of course he does.
Phoenix leans back in his seat, clenching his fists to stop the tremor running through them. He hadn't wanted to reek of alcohol when he arrived at the airport and risk a run-in with airport security, so he had skipped spiking his coffee. He opted instead to drink on the plane. He orders a glass of whiskey—two fingers—and empties the glass in under a minute. Then he orders another. Slowly the tremors fade and it's like a soft, wool blanket has been draped around him. He's pleasantly buzzed and feels warm and cosy as he sinks back in his seat.
First class smells of citrus wipes and expensive cologne. The seat is soft—too soft—cradling him in a way that makes it hard to tell where his body ends and the chair begins. He lazily blinks his eyes open to watch out the window as the city pulls farther and farther away—shrinking to something harmless and bite-sized.
The flight attendant raises an eyebrow—just barely—when Phoenix asks for a third glass. But she smiles, polite and professional before returning with the bottle to refill his glass. He offers a crooked smile in return, something that once could've passed for charming, but now reeks of desperation as he clutches his glass like an anchor.
She fills his glass up, and Phoenix remarks on the tension in her body. She probably assumes all that alcohol is going to turn him disruptive—violent, even. But that's not the sort of drunk Phoenix is. He gets talkative, vulnerable. Sometimes weepy. Sometimes horny. But never violent. Never loud and mean. He's simultaneously spiteful and thankful for that. Maybe, if he had been loud, and mean and angry, quitting would've been easier. Then, he could look back at his actions with more shame than apathy and feel that something wasn't right. Now though, he can't find a single reason to quit. He's not harming anyone, and on those nights he gets horny, stumbling into bed with Kristoph is as easy as boiling water. Sometimes he even initiates it. Kristoph hates that, and Phoenix likes rubbing him wrong. Kristoph likes to think of himself as someone in control, someone calling the shots. He doesn't like when it's Phoenix doing the pulling, clinging and demanding. It takes away the power from him. And even if in the morning he wakes up nauseous and regretful of his previous actions, there's a small ping of satisfaction reverberating through his body—because for a moment, one small moment, Phoenix took the power back.
The flight attendant leaves, heels softly clicking against the carpeted aisle as she makes her way down the rows of seats to the next person. Phoenix watches, slowly sipping his glass this time. He knows how to pace himself, when to pace himself. He's already buzzed, no need to press further to the point of obliteration before he sees Miles. He wants to be clear-headed enough not to raise any red flags.
The soft hum of the engine, the chatter of people surrounding him and the warmth of the alcohol is enough to lull Phoenix into a state of comfort, and soon his eyelids droop—falling close as he drifts off to sleep.
In the dream he's a parasite, leeching off of people's happiness and light until there's nothing left. Trucy is a hollowed out husk at his feet, gasping and crying and asking why, daddy? Miles lies dead in an elevator. Gumshoe is hunting him and Kristoph keeps him in a jar as a pet—smiling that all too pleasant, unnerving smile as he pushes his glasses up his nose.
Phoenix wakes with a start, sweat pearling on his forehead and heart like a jackhammer in his chest. Even as he blinks his eyes open he can't rid himself of the images. Of Trucy. Miles. Kristoph.
He brings a hand up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. His mouth feels sticky and oily, a bitter tinge that burns the back of his throat. His head feels stuffed with cotton and his ears are ringing. There's a splash of whiskey coating the bottom of the glass and he throws it back, lapping at the last of it with his tongue to get the taste of wrong wrong wrong out of his mouth.
The plane is slowly descending now, and Phoenix watches as the ground grows closer and closer, becoming bigger and bigger until the plane jolts and the wheels touch down.
He's stiff in his movements as he gets out of his seat to grab his bag and make it out of the plane. His throat and chest burn from acid reflux and his stomach rumbles from hunger. He hasn't eaten all day. He slept through the offered meals at the plane and he feels light-headed and shaky.
He makes it inside the airport and as he sets his eyes on Miles everything around him seems to calm and settle. His heart doesn't beat too fast in his aching chest, his skin doesn't feel too tight around his body and his tongue doesn't feel too big for his mouth. Miles' presence is like a balm on his burning, aching soul and just seeing him tips the world back to its right angle.
Miles straightens when he sees him, lips giving a small twitch at the corners. Phoenix stops in front of him.
"Wright," Miles says with a small, contained nod.
Phoenix tips his head back and eyes him lazily. "Edgeworth."
Then, before Phoenix can blink or even breathe, Miles has crossed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Phoenix.
Phoenix doesn't hesitate, hugging back for all he's worth. He comes up to his tippy toes to wrap his arms around him properly—clinging to him for dear life.
They stay like that for what feels like days, months, years.
Phoenix inhales the all too familiar smell of him; expensive cologne, ink, and something spicy—like pinecone.
When they finally pull apart Miles' cheeks are tinged red, and he lets out a little huff before speaking.
"It's good to see you, Wright. It's been a minute."
Phoenix laughs softly. "Something like that, yeah."
His eyes roam up and down his body and he takes a shaky inhale. "You look—"
Phoenix snorts. "Like hell, I know."
Miles smiles kindly. "Hungry," he corrects softly. "Let's get your luggage and then stop for some food. How does Indian sound?"
Phoenix's stomach gives a growl of agreement at that and Phoenix flushes a bit. But Miles just smiles and accompanies him to the baggage claim.
He hadn't known how long he would be staying, so Phoenix had packed his biggest suitcase with an assortment of clothes and necessities. When the suitcase comes—light blue and decorated with stickers, because Trucy had gotten bored while he was packing—Miles grabs it for him and pulls out the handle. He tests the wheels by dragging it across the floor for a bit, then starts walking.
Phoenix follows with his backpack slung over his shoulder, keeping a few steps behind Miles.
They make it to the parking lot where Miles' red sports car is parked. Miles throws the bags in the backseat, then sits down behind the wheel. Phoenix sits down in the passenger side. Miles starts the engine and the car purrs to life—a low rumble that vibrates through the vehicle. Phoenix leans his head against the cool glass, eyes falling shut as Miles backs out of the parking spot and makes it onto the road.
"Coach would've been fine, you know?" He says then into the silence between them. "You didn’t have to pay for first class."
Phoenix can hear Miles' clothes rustle as he shrugs. "You deserve the comfort," he just says, like it's nothing. And to Miles it probably is. To Phoenix though, it's everything.
"Did you have a good flight?" He asks then, like it just occurred to him. Phoenix hums.
"Slept for most of it," he admits, leaving out the fact that he had to drink in order to do so. He hopes Miles can't smell it on him. "Do you have gum?"
Miles doesn't take his eyes off the road as he opens the glove box. Phoenix spots a pack of gum and grabs it, opening it and shaking out two pieces that he throws into his open mouth and starts chewing. It's bubblegum flavored. Not Phoenix's favorite, but it will do. He chews with grim determination, as if doing it enough will wash the whiskey out of his system completely—and not just the taste.
They come to stop just outside a resturant—a hole in the wall, easy to miss unless you're looking for it. Miles parks the car and they get out.
Inside the smell of ginger, garlic and coriander is strong, and Phoenix can feel is stomach rumble, both and protest and longing for proper food. He can't remember the last time he ate something that wasn't a sandwich, burger or borscht. He had tried to keep Trucy's diet colorful and varied, but when it came to himself food just wasn't a priority. He ate mostly because he knew drinking on an empty stomach was ill-advised. It wasn't always he had the money to eat either. Most of what he earned went to keeping Trucy clothed and fed, and what little was left for himself was spent on alcohol or poker.
Miles leads the way inside, and down a set of stairs. The resturant itself is in what looks like a basement, though it doesn't feel like it. The walls are stone, decorated with golden pieces and paintings of landscapes and elephants. Miles slides inside a corner booth and gestures to Phoenix to have a seat. He does, right across from Miles. A short woman with a mousy face and demeanor hands them their menus and they both open them up, eyeing the different foods and drinks this place has to offer.
"Do you come here often?" Phoenix asks, looking at Miles over the laminated menu. Miles shrugs.
"Not every day. But the food is good and the prices reasonable. During lunch hours they have this amazing all you can eat buffet for practically nothing."
Phoenix eyes the prices. Reasonable in Miles' world is drastically different from what Phoenix would consider reasonable, and he swallows hard.
"This looks good, but I—I'm not really hungry. I think I'll just—"
"Wright," Miles interrupts. "Don't be an idiot. It's on me."
Phoenix's pride doesn't allow him to take on that offer immediately, so he puts up a feeble fight.
"No, no. I can't ask you—"
"You're not. I'm telling you. It's on me."
Phoenix closes his eyes, then he gives one, defeated nod.
"Thank you," he whispers around the lump in his throat.
Miles huffs. "Don't be absurd. You're the one doing me a favor here. Coming all this way, helping me. The least I can do is make sure you're fed."
Phoenix gives him a trembling smile before ducking his head and focusing back on the menu. The mousy woman returns after a moment and Phoenix orders Tikka Masala and Miles Briyani. They decide on sharing a piece of garlic Naan and while Miles orders water to drink, Phoenix orders a beer. Miles doesn't comment on his drink choice, and Phoenix breathes out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.
The food arrives surprisingly quickly. Miles' Briyani smells fragrant, a rich mix of spices that makes Phoenix's stomach twist in anticipation. The Tikka Masala in front of him steams invitingly, the sauce a deep, warm orange that promises heat and flavor with every bite. He reaches for the garlic Naan first, tearing off a piece and scooping up some sauce. The first taste hits him like a small revelation—creamy, spicy, and comforting. Between the two of them the garlic Naan quickly disappears, and Phoenix takes his spoon to eat the rest of his food with it. Between the chicken, sauce and rice Phoenix finds himself mostly appreciating the rice. It's light, fluffy and warm, filling him up just right. He hadn't even realized how hungry he was until that first bite.
"Good, isn't it?" Miles hums, a satisfactory smile playing at the corners of his lips as he watches Phoenix wolf down the food like a man starved.
Phoenix nods, ignoring the way his stomach cramps and burns as the spices mix with his acid reflux. He drinks his beer slowly, careful to not make any faces as the taste doesn't mix well with his food. The beer is low in alcohol level, barely even giving him a buzz. But it's enough to keep the tremors at bay for now.
It takes all his self-control not to lick the plate clean once he's done. As someone comes to take the dirty plates away, Miles takes the opportunity to order two coffees. Phoenix asks to make that an Irish coffee. Miles raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.
"So," Phoenix says, desperate to clear the awkward silence. "What do you need help with?"
Miles eyes him for a bit before shaking his head.
"Not here. We'll go over everything once we're home."
Phoenix nods, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. He doesn't know what to say. It's been too long since he had a one-on-one with Miles. The air feels fraught with a tension Phoenix doesn't know how to deal with. It's never been smooth sailing between them, always some sort of push and pull going on. Now though, Phoenix finds there is very little fight left in him. Not enough strength to push or pull.
"How are you?" Miles finally asks, the words smart his ear like the sound of a gavel in the courtroom. He blinks, a sudden inability to speak overcoming him.
Miles waits patiently for an answer. The coffee arrives and they both start drinking. Then, when no answer seems forthcoming, he switches tactics. "How's Trucy?"
Low blow, Phoenix thinks, the smile curling his lips turning bitter.
"She's—" his eyes fall to where his hands are fidgeting in his lap. He takes a breath. "I wanna say she's good, right? That should be the answer. Truth is, I'm not so sure. She says she is, but how can that be? Her dad disappeared. Now I'm taking care of her and I'm—" he presses two fingers into his eyes, voice trembling. "I'm doing the best I can. I keep her clothed and fed, but other than that? Truth to be told, I'm kind of a mess. I don't know what I'm doing."
The admission hangs in the air, heavy and poisonous. Phoenix isn't one to pour his heart out, but the alcohol is loosening his tongue in the most embarrassing ways.
"I don't think that's true," Miles says softly, hands curling around his cup. "You've always been—remarkable, with children. I don't see how taking care of Trucy is any different than taking care of Pearl. Or Maya."
"Well, Maya is significantly older, and Pearl was never my full-time responsibility. She still had family in her village that took care of her occasionally. Trucy is all mine now. And I feel like I'm failing her."
His voice breaks a little at the end, and he clears his throat to cover it up. Miles hums.
"I think," he begins carefully, "that you're being too hard on yourself. If she says she is fine, then you need to trust that. Children aren't exactly known for sparing anyone's feelings. They're brutally honest, for better and for worse. If some need of hers were going unfulfilled, you'd know, because she'd make it known."
Phoenix breathes out. It's not exactly a comfort, since Miles doesn't know the entire truth. Doesn't know how Phoenix stumbles through the door inebriated every day. Doesn't know how he hides bottles and cans from Trucy under his bed. Doesn't know how he spends most of his mornings being sick in the toilet bowl, or prioritizes being drunk over being fed.
He doesn't know the truth, so his comfort falls short. But Phoenix is a leech, so he'll take what he can get. He grabs on to the feeble praise and wraps it around him like a shield. For a moment he allows the delusion: that he's a good dad. A good person.
"How are you?" He asks, desperate for a change of subject. Miles kisses his teeth.
"Fine," he says waspishly. "Be like that." He is quiet for a moment, stirring his coffee with a wooden spoon. "I'm fine. Stressed—this case is giving me hives. Hence, why I contacted you." He takes the spoon out of the coffee and wipes it on a napkin. Staring at it for a while, he gnaws on his bottom lip before finally looking at Phoenix.
"I'm really glad you're here."
The words hit a soft spot right in his heart, so carelessly thrown out yet hitting the bullseye with such force the target shakes. Phoenix has to take a breath to steady himself, gripping the edge of the table to keep himself upright. He can feel the words wrap themselves around his throat—choking him.
He doesn't know why it shakes him so bad, can't put words on their impact. Maybe it's not the words themselves, but the way Miles says them—how he looks, delivering that killing blow. Eyes wide and earnest, like he truly is happy to have him here. Or maybe it really is just the words, the idea that someone would be happy to see him. Why would he be, when Phoenix is such a wreck? Then again, museums had been built around wrecks. Maybe Miles was a mere tourist, there to gaze upon his destruction without influencing it in a way that mattered. Not there to stop, or speed up the process, just there to see nature run its course.
Despite the million things running through his head, the thousands of voices overlapping and contradictory ideas forming highways in his brain, he manages a smile.
"I'm glad you invited me."
-
The place Miles is staying at is—well, fancy would be a gross understatement, to say the least.
"I don't live here," he assures Phoenix, "I just rent it while I'm in town." As if that's any better. It looks more like a castle than mansion, with big windows and wooden doors with fancy patterns carved into them.
This place has at least three bathrooms and five bedrooms, and with a twinge of annoyance Phoenix wonders why Miles would ever need all that space.
"You can take the bedroom upstairs, to the left. It connects to one of the bathrooms, so you'll have your own during the duration of your stay."
Phoenix hums as he drags his suitcase across the polished, wooden floor. Miles turns to him then.
"I would like to get started as soon as possible, but I understand if you need to rest up for a bit. My office is just past the kitchen, so come see me when you're feeling ready."
Phoenix looks at him, and realizes with a start that Miles has changed. A lot. His sharp edges seemed to have been filed down by the passage of time. He no longer walks around like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He seems—lighter, almost. As Phoenix takes his time to answer him, a small crease appears between his brows. Phoenix reaches out a hand and presses his thumb to it, smoothing it out. Miles looks surprised, but Phoenix just gives him an easy-going smile.
"I slept for the entire plane ride," he reminds him. "Just let me pack up and I'll come see you."
Miles still looks a bit shellshocked as Phoenix pushes past him, carrying the suitcase up the grand staircase. He finds his room with ease and pushes the door open with his hip.
The bedroom is open and spacious, with large windows, cream walls and a king-sized bed. Phoenix places the suitcase on the bed and opens it up. Clothes spill over the edge as soon as the zipper is undone, and he starts transporting them from the suitcase, to the closet by the door. It's all just sweats and hoodies. A raincoat, underwear, socks, boots. It didn't feel worth it, bringing his suit. It would have just taken up space. It's been over a year since he last wore it.
Then again, it seems he isn't that opposed to packing worthless things, since—
He opens a small pouch sewn into the inside of the suitcase. With trembling fingers he pulls out his defense attorney badge. It sits in his open palm as he stares down at it with an aching heart.
This badge had once been everything. He'd worn it with pride, with purpose, the unshakable belief that it meant something. Now it was useless—nothing more than a relic from a life that no longer belongs to him. No matter how many times he tells himself to let it go, his fingers always refuse.
They curl around the metal, the edge biting into his skin as if to remind him it's still real. Phoenix breathes out slowly through his nose, steadying himself, before slipping the badge back into the pouch. He zips it shut with deliberate care.
No one can know he still carries it with him—clings to it—like a child to a threadbare security blanket he's long since outgrown.
He picks up a sweater then, rolled and tucked into the corner of the suitcase. He unrolls it to reveal a bottle of scotch. He knew packing it was a risk, and he is thankful the glass bottle didn't break during the ride. He hesitates a moment, then uncaps the bottle to take a swig from it. The alcohol burns his throat, numbs his stomach, lightens the load on his shoulder. He doesn't drink much, just a few mouths full to keep him going. He re-hides the bottle, swaddling it up in his sweater and tucking it back into the suitcase. Then, to cover the smell, he takes out the mouthwash. He takes a big mout-full, swirling the liquid around before finding the bathroom and spitting it out in the sink.
With the pleasant buzz back in his body, he makes it down the stairs, past the kitchen, and into Miles' office. Miles sits behind a desk, papers strewn about around him, looking deep in thought. Phoenix stops, dead in his tracks, and stares.
Miles looks up, an inquisitive look on his face as Phoenix is left gaping at the sight before him.
"Something wrong, Wright?"
Phoenix blinks. "You—" his voice dies in his throat, and he helplessly gestures to his own face. Miles brings a hand up, then flushes a little as his fingers lightly graze the thin frames on his face.
"Oh," he says, clearing his throat. "It's just for reading. I don't always—but sometimes, when I'm tired, they help."
Phoenix swallows. Miles in glasses is new. He didn't even know he owned glasses. And while part of him is reminded of Kristoph—the way he pushes them up his nose whenever they slide down—Phoenix can't deny the fact that he looks good. In a way that brings butterflies to his stomach and makes his pulse jump.
Phoenix didn't even know he was capable of wanting anymore. He has what he has and he's settled. He doesn't long, he doesn't dream, he doesn't fantasize. It's a waste of time and only leaves him aching for things that will never be. When it comes to romance and sex, Phoenix has given up completely. Not only does having a child put a cane in that wheel, but the thing he has with Kristoph will never be romantic. And he will never be rid of it. Not for a long time. Keeping an eye on him comes first—before his own health, his wishes, his wants. He'll sacrifice his mind and body if he has to. Romance is the last thing on his mind.
It's not like Phoenix is stupid.
Okay, fine, he's a little stupid.
But he is also extremely introspective, which means he knows his feelings for Miles surpasses platonic. Always had. As a kid he remembers desperately wanting to befriend the other boy, then being over the moon when he finally did. The hurt he went through when Miles had chosen death could only be compared to that of a widower's. The day he lost his title was the day any of that stopped mattering. What was the point? Confess and become a burden? Confess and be denied because he was no longer the person he once had been?
Phoenix doesn't long, fantasize or dream. But on the nights were Kristoph's touches are soft and his kisses light Phoenix closes his eyes and pretends. And if he whispers Miles' name as he comes, well. That's between him and Kristoph. And Kristoph has never brought it up.
"Are you okay?"
Phoenix startles, snapping back to reality, where Miles is watching him with concern. Phoenix clears his throat.
"Looks good," he says gruffly, walking around the desk to lean over and get a look at the files. "This it?"
Miles hums, handing a piece of paper over to Phoenix.
"Read that."
Phoenix tries. But the letters keep jumping on the page—doing a weird little dance, and he can't process anything he's reading. Still, he pretends.
"Intresting," he says after a moment, handing the piece of paper back. He suspects he's made a mistake when Miles doesn't take it, only stares at him.
"You didn’t read it," he accuses, glaring at Phoenix. Phoenix can feel his hackles rise.
"I did!" He insists, thrusting the paper at Miles. "I skimmed it."
"It's upside down." Phoenix freezes. Miles keeps staring at him. Then, he sighs and takes off his glasses. "Look, I told you we didn't have to do this immediately. You can go rest if you're not feeling up for it."
Phoenix wets his lips. "No, I—I'm sorry. It's just been a while."
Miles nods. "Fine. I'll read it to you."
Miles takes the paper and starts reading it out loud.
Something, something, someone's missing, someone's dead, evidence, fingerprints, footprints.
It all blends together into a familiar smoothie Phoenix finds himself gagging on. Its taste a bittersweet memory on his tongue. A sweater shrunk in the wash, or shoes too worn to wear. He doesn't have it in him anymore. He isn't an attorney anymore. Why did he ever agree to this?
"So what do you think?" Miles asks, setting the paper down on the desk and fully turning to look at Phoenix.
Phoenix hums.
"She didn't do it."
Miles blinks. "That's it?"
Phoenix nods. "That's it."
Miles sighs and drags a hand over his face.
"How can you be so sure? How can you—how are you always, just so sure?"
Phoenix bends down to hover over the papers.
"That," he says, pointing to a chunk of text. "Doesn't that just sound off?"
Miles picks it up and reads it over again.
"I guess," he says slowly. "If she did it—"
"That means she would have had to go over here," he points at a point on a map that is folded out over the desk. "Then trek all the way back through the woods, to end up here," he moves to a different point on the map. "Look at this." He grabs a photo taken on the night of the murder, of the suspect. "She's in heels."
"She could've had a spare pair stashed somewhere," Miles suggest.
"Even so, look at the environment the body was found in. It's all mud and trees. It's a hard trip to make without leaving a trace behind. It was raining too, correct?"
Miles hums in confirmation.
They stay like that for hours, talking and debating back and forth. For a brief moment Phoenix forgets. Forgets he's no longer an attorney. Forgets about Kristoph. God help him, but for a moment he even forgets about Trucy and all the responsibilities that come with taking care of her.
He feels free, in a way he hasn't since his disbarment. He laughs and debates and throws his pen at Miles when the other man makes an outrageous claim. Miles dodges it with ease and smiles right back, also looking somewhat lighter than last Phoenix saw him.
He looks beautiful, and Phoenix can feel his heart squeeze with a longing he never before dared himself to feel. He leans in a little closer, shoulder brushing against Miles'. He just needs to feel him—close and real and there. Miles doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he just leans right into Phoenix's space, and Phoenix doesn't know what that means. If it even means anything. But he's thankful, both for the touch and for it to go unremarked upon.
They stay like that, shoulders pressed together, a shared warmth neither of them acknowledges. Phoenix focuses on the papers in front of him with a concentration that borders on absurd, as if the right arrangement of evidence might explain the sudden tightness in his chest.
Miles clears his throat. "If we assume the time of death is accurate, that makes the witness statement unreliable."
Phoenix nods. "Right, right. Cause they heard a scream at ten, but—" he gestures vaguely, one hand in the air. "—wind, thunder, rain. Sound travels weird in weather like that."
Miles' lips twitch. "Finally," he says dryly. "Something we agree on."
"Let's not make that a habit," Phoenix ribs lightly. "The world might end."
Miles chuckles and shakes his head.
Their shoulders shift, the contact changing just enough to remind Phoenix it's there. Real. Miles smells faintly of coffee and ink and something indefinably Miles. Phoenix's heart gives another traitorous lurch. Miles reaches for a document, his sleeve brushing Phoenix's wrist. It's nothing—less than nothing—and yet Phoenix goes still, breath caught, like a spooked witness on the stand.
Miles looks at him then. "Wright?"
Phoenix clears his throat, aiming for casual.
"Yeah?"
"You're shaking."
Shit.
Phoenix immediately clasps his hands behind him to hide it. He gives Miles a smile that trembles a little.
"Tired," he says as an explanation. Miles looks concerned, but nods slowly.
"Maybe we can pick this up tomorrow. How about you get some rest while I get some dinner started?"
Phoenix swallows. He doesn't want this moment to end. To get out of this little bubble they've created for themselves. Not when it's so safe and warm here. But he nods and straightens up. Miles pushes out his chair and stands up, stretching his arms over his head and wiggling this way and that to crack his back.
"Getting old?" Phoenix teases, desperate to keep that light, playful air. Miles huffs.
"Oh, hush you," he says, stalking past him and out of the office. Phoenix follows him into the kitchen. Miles opens the fridge and starts rummaging around. "What are we feeling?"
Phoenix sneaks a glance at the inside of the fridge over Miles' shoulder. He's aching for a drink, but all Miles seems to have is an unopened bottle of wine, and Phoenix isn't about to suggest they open it. Knowing Miles, it probably costs an arm and a leg.
"I got some leftover lasagna?" Miles turns to look at him. Phoenix smiles and nods.
"Lasagna. Sounds great."
Miles takes out a container and closes the fridge door. "I'll heat this up in the oven. It'll be ready in 20. Why don't you pop down to the store and get some greens for a salad?"
Phoenix almost smiles. Anyone else might've been put-out being put to work, but to Phoenix it meant that Miles saw him. He knew Phoenix's need to be of use, to do something and not just stand idle by while everyone else was doing all the work.
He nods and heads to the hall. "Anything specific?"
Miles follows him. "Lettuce, tomato, cucumber, red pepper. Some feta cheese. Do you need me to write it down for you?"
Phoenix takes a shoehorn hanging on the rack and puts his shoes on. "Nah. I'll remember. Salad stuff."
Miles huffs. "Salad stuff." Then he frowns. "You don't even know where—"
"We drove past it when we got here. Don't worry. I won't get lost."
He waves goodbye and leaves. The cold autumn air bites into his cheeks and hands and he shoves them into the pockets of his jacket. There, he can feel his fingers bump up against something. Something he had forgotten he even brought.
He grips the cigarette pack and pulls it out of its containment. He stares down at it. Smoking wasn't something he did regularly. It was often enough that his lungs had grown used to the abuse, but not so often he was experiencing withdrawal if he went a day without them.
With trembling hands he gets out a cigarette and places it between dry, cracked lips. He fishes out his lighter and lights it. He takes a long, deep breath, inhaling the toxins and holding it in his lungs for a few seconds before breathing out. The smoke travels through his mouth and into the air, before dissipating. A passerby coughs theatrically as they walk by and Phoenix gives them an apologetic smile, but doesn't put the cigarette out.
It lasts him the entire walk to the store, and once outside he throws it on the ground and stomps on it once to make sure it's out. He heads inside the store and grabs a cart.
The store is big and bright, and it takes a while for Phoenix to find all he needs—too used to his own smaller grocery store where the sorting of products made sense.
He grabs the lettuce, and cucumber, and tomatoes and red peppers. Then, after some aimless wandering, he finds the feta. He also buys a six-pack. Maybe for himself. Maybe to share.
He places himself at the back of a queue and waits his turn. A few feet away he can see a self-check out, but they don't have those where he's from, and he wouldn't know how to operate one. He watches as one woman in a worn jacket and fingerless gloves scans her items and packs them directly in to her bag. He notes how some of the items goes into the smaller compartment of the bag, and with a start he realizes why.
She doesn't actually scan all the items, instead, she strategically places a finger over the barcode and pretends to scan it. He watches as she does this with the most expensive items—pretending to scan them, then puts them in the smaller compartment. Then, when she gets held up and checked, she only reveals the items she actually scanned, the ones in the main compartment of the bag. The worker rescans the stuff to double-check that all is in order, then lets her go.
Phoenix stands frozen, unsure if he should say something. He very obviously just witnessed a crime, plain as day.
A Phoenix from a year ago might have said something—might have stood up and demanded for the truth to be revealed. But he's not that person anymore.
It shames him to the bone.
He looks away, afraid that staring too long might make him complicit.
The line shuffles forward, and he tells himself it's none of his business, trying to cast the incident out of his mind. He recalls the worn jacket, the fingerless gloves. The way her shoes were held together with duct tape.
Who is he to judge? If stealing was the only way for her to survive, then maybe—maybe it was okay. Though Phoenix's silence might be a blessing, on his tongue it felt like a curse.
He puts the items on the conveyor belt and walks up to pay.
The price smarts his wallet a bit, but he's not about to tell Miles that—not when his most expensive item was the six-pack he bought for himself.
He doesn't wait until he gets home. As soon as he's outside with the groceries he rips a can out of its package and opens it.
He downs half in five great gulps.
He wipes his mouth and breathes out harshly, the air turning misty in the cold.
He thinks back on the woman and wonders if that could ever be him. If backed into a corner, would he turn to crime? He'd like to think he wouldn't—that he'd instead reach out for help. Miles, Maya—maybe even Kristoph. Then again, knowing himself, his pride might not allow it.
He decides not to dwell on it more, swallowing the rest of the beer down. He disposes of the empty can and smokes another cigarette on the walk back. Half a block away he throws it away and makes it up the rest of the hill to where the "house" is. He knocks once, then steps inside.
Miles greets him, wearing a silly pink apron Phoenix just knows must've been a gift from Larry. He smiles at Phoenix and Phoenix's heart lurches in his chest. It feels so ridiculously domestic he can't help but for his mind to go wild. To imagine how it would be if this was every one of his days.
Miles walks over to take the bag from him. On his way he freezes with his hand mid-air. He sniffs the air.
Phoenix can feel his stomach drop. Shit. Did he actually smell of alcohol? Did Miles know? Was he going to make a whole thing of it?
"D-Did you—have you been smoking?"
A wave of relief washes over him, and he actually laughs a bit.
"Yeah, Edgeworth. I had a cigarette on my way back."
Miles' brows do a complicated little dance on his face before settling in a frown.
"You shouldn't smoke," he scolds, grabbing the groceries from Phoenix like he's holding them hostage.
Phoenix huffs. "I'm not some rebellious teen. I know the risks."
"Well, if you know them, why would you do it?"
Phoenix closes his eyes. "Because it goddamn helps, okay?" He snaps. Miles takes a step back like he's been slapped. Phoenix can't look at him. "I'm in a constant state of anxiety because of—everything, and this is my only release. Just let me have it."
Miles gnaws on his bottom lip, looking torn.
"I—I just want what's best for you," he whispers.
Phoenix gives a curt nod. "Yeah, well. You don't get to decide what's best for me."
Miles nods, pressing his lips together. "Fine," he grits out. "Get cancer then."
He turns on his heels and stomps into the kitchen. Phoenix sighs and follows after taking off his shoes.
Miles slams the cutting board down on the counter and starts unpacking the groceries.
Phoenix hovers uselessly in the doorway for a moment, hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he might find a better version of himself in there. The kitchen smells like garlic and something warm—onions, maybe—and the apron ties sway with every sharp movement Miles makes. It's painfully intimate in a way Phoenix doesn’t deserve right now.
"Edgeworth," Phoenix tries, voice soft. Miles ignores him. "Edge—Miles."
Miles stops, hands braced on the counter with his head hanging—hair obscuring his face. Phoenix slowly walks over—afraid that any sudden movements might spook him away. Like a deer.
He puts a hand on his shoulder and Miles turns around, eyes darting around to look anywhere but Phoenix.
Phoenix puts a hand under his chin to direct his face so he finally looks at him.
"Hey," he whispers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."
Miles sighs, hand coming up to grab Phoenix's.
"I shouldn't have said the thing about the cancer. That was mean."
Phoenix gives him a crooked smile. "It was. But, you're not wrong. I just—I don't need you to be okay with it. I just need you not to give me shit about it."
Miles nods. "It's your body. Who am I to tell you what to do with it?"
Phoenix groans. "Miles—"
Miles throws his hands up in the air. "Fine. Fine. No—" he frowns, staring at the grocery bag. "Did you buy a six-pack with only five beers in it?"
"Yeah," Phoenix lies, looking away. "It was the only one they had left. It was on—sale."
Miles' eyes flick from the once-a-six-pack-now-a-five-pack to Phoenix. He can practically hear the wheels turning inside Miles' head. Finally he shakes himself and turns back to the chopping board.
Phoenix walks over and puts the five beers in the fridge. He shuts it with a soft click and looks over to the dining room. The table is set with matching plates and cutlery. The lasagna is steaming in its glass form, looking absolutely delectable. Phoenix's stomach cramps a bit at the smell.
"I'm gonna go wash my hands," he tells Miles, then heads upstairs. He immediately goes to the bedroom and digs out his suitcase. He unzips it and takes out the bottle of scotch.
One sip.
Two sips.
Three sips.
He puts the cap back on and hides it again. He washes his hands, then heads downstairs.
The salad is done and Miles is sitting in the dining room, waiting for Phoenix. Phoenix gives him an apologetic smile and sits down across from him.
"Dig in," Miles says, gesturing at the lasagna and the salad. Phoenix nods and loads his plate up. The lasagna is still steaming hot, cheese gooey and stringy.
Phoenix takes a bite and hisses softly, tongue burning, but he doesn't regret it for a second. The lasagna is rich and comforting in a way only food someone else made for you can be. He chews slowly, savoring it.
"This is really good," he compliments softly.
Miles hums. "Tastes a bit better the day after. The flavors have time to settle."
Phoenix nods in agreement and reaches for the salad, crunching into lettuce and cucumber. For a few minutes, they eat in silence—not the brittle, wounded quiet from earlier, but something gentler. Cutlery clinks softly against plates. The house seems to breathe around them. Phoenix becomes aware, slowly, of Miles watching him.
Not staring, just checking. The way his eyes linger a beat too long when Phoenix reaches for his glass of water. The way his gaze flicks to Phoenix’s mouth, then away again. Phoenix keeps his focus on his plate, suddenly very conscious of his own body, of the warmth spreading in his chest that has nothing to do with the food.
"You don't have to rush," Miles says then. "The food isn't gonna grow legs and walk off the plate."
Phoenix huffs around a mouthful and leans back, chewing a bit slower.
"Hungry," he just says once he's swallowed down the food. Miles sips his water.
"Wright," he says then, looking concerned. "You're—good, right? I mean, you'd tell me, if you were really struggling?"
Phoenix stills, realizing Miles is giving him a chance to come clean. This is it, when he finally opens up and says all that's been weighing on him
"Not being an attorney anymore kills me. It was my only purpose. I don't know who I am without the badge."
"Money is tight. Money is always tight. I often have to choose between who gets fed between Trucy and me. More than once have my apartment shut off the heat or electricity. I saw a woman shoplift today and I know I'm only one bad bet away from being her. I don't know what to do."
"I'm not a dad. I don't know how to be a dad. Taking care of Trucy is so much work, and while I don't regret it for a second, I am terrified of screwing up."
"I'm in a toxic situationship with Kristoph Gavin and I don't know how to get out. If I call it off he'll be suspicious, and I can't afford that. But every time I fall into bed with him I wish it was you instead. I don't know how much more I can put my body through. Every kiss, every touch, every stroke is like nails against a chalkboard and I hate every minute of it. So much so I turn my mind off and disassociate. It's made me incapable of enjoying sex with other people, because as soon as I close my eyes, they become him. And I don't know if I will ever recover."
"I don't know how to function without alcohol. The only thing I have to look forward to when I wake up is getting drunk. Alcohol is the only thing that makes the days bearable. I'm so dependant on it it's become dangerous. I don't want to be like this, but I don't know how to stop. Help me, please."
"I think I'm in love with you. I think I always have been. But being with you here, now, reminded me of feelings I thought I had long buried. You make me want. So much. I don't know how to deal with it. Help me."
But he says none of that. The words tickle his brain, dance on his tongue, but they never leave his mouth. Instead, he smiles.
"I'm good, Edgeworth. You don't need to worry about me."